I can't see your star.

You always had one, even—especially—when you were a small child, and I met you at the first. I touched your hand in a simple greeting, and though I disliked you then, I knew. You had a destiny. It was there, in your hand, in your star.

You kept your star hidden. At first I wondered why, and then I began to understand, as we two began to grow closer. The Council thought the number of microscopic bodies in your blood was the reason that other Padawans distrusted, almost dreaded you, but I knew that it was something far less tangible. You frightened them, you and your star, for you were different than anything they had known before, and destiny—like all great things—is always feared by those simple minds who do not understand it and do not dare to try. So you hid that bright, beautiful thing deep within you, and tried to forget it was there so you would no longer stand out from your peers.

Is it arrogant to think that I was the only one who saw your star for what it was? But I believe it, all the same. I knew, so I waited, patiently, for the day when the love I gave you was enough, and you trusted me with your greatest secret that was really no secret at all. You opened yourself and showed me your star in all its glory. Before then I had seen sparks, sometimes a flicker. I didn't realize, until that day, what greatness you possessed, what untapped power lay in your hands.

I didn't realize until that day that you were not called the Chosen One because of your midichlorians.

War came upon us, and your star grew brighter, its light turning fierce and red. It was then, I think, that you began to realize what a gift you had been given. We who know of the Force do not believe in coincidences, and you never did; you knew a destiny awaited you, and you yearned for it as a man in a desert longs for water.

It was then, I think, that you began to fall. That longing was your undoing. You should have known that destiny cannot be found; by its very nature, it exists only if it comes to you.

I retreated from the war then, from the Jedi that were no more, from Mustafar. I lost that battle, though you were the one who screamed in pain on the burning ground. Without your star to warm me, I went to Tatooine, but even the heat of two scorching suns could not make me forget you.

I was more alone then that I had ever been in my life. I gathered my Jedi morals and mantras to me like balm for my aching soul, knowing that they were meaningless now that their enforcers had gone. I called out to you each and every day, not in words but in every action my body made. I missed you, like grass misses the rain, like a flower misses the light. But you never heard me, and the silence between us that seemed every day to break me was never broken.

I can't see your star.

Maybe it couldn't breathe beneath that mask. I don't know how you do it.

Maybe it simply doesn't exist anymore. Maybe you outgrew it, or killed it, if such a thing is possible. I prefer to think that it's only been drowned out by the undying, fluorescent red lights of your new star, the one the size of a planet, whose light only destroys. It lives still, I believe, beneath the flashing panel on your chest and the never-ceasing suck-hiss of your breath. It is weak, flickering dimly, unfed and unused.

Still it lives. Of this I am certain.

But I can't see your star.

Your mechanical lights frightened it away.

Author's Note: If you're wondering why this seems so familiar, it's because I am a big fan of the band Evanescence, and I was inspired suddenly by the song "Your Star." If you're not familiar with the song, you can always look up the lyrics, because quite a few of them found their way in here. This is the closest I've come to writing a songfic. And, by the by, if you see Amy Lee, tell her I love her and ask her please not to sue.